So, picture this: it’s half nine on a Thursday night, rain coming down in that relentless sideways way it does when the gods are taking the piss, and I’m parked outside some cul-de-sac in Leith, trying to wrestle a busted washing machine out the back of the van. My hands are numb, my back’s a write-off, and I’ve got Classic Rock Radio spitting adverts for stairlifts and Viagra when my phone buzzes.
It's my mate Gary — the guy who thinks that doom metal is a school subject that you can learn at school — and he tells me (I say tell, when Gary tells you something, it’s basically a demand), "Stick on the new FRAYLE, mate. It'll shift the weather in your head." So I did. And he was right.
The second "Heretics & Lullabies" starts, and the world crawls along. "Walking Wounded" starts — heavy crawling guitars like a motor warming up in a cemetery. Gwyn Strang's vocals don't sing; they haunt. They wriggle beneath your skin and nestle near your ribcage. The harmonies enfold one another like smoke, and the entire thing seems too delicate to be, but heavy enough to break asphalt.
"Summertime Sadness" — may well be a LANA DEL REY cover song, but they’ve turned it into some velvet-trimmed funeral dirge. It's the tune that makes you think of all the awful things you did when you were in love, but you want to hit replay so you can relive it anyway.
And then "Boo" hits. Like they opened the doors on the van and let the ghosts out to dance. The riffs sway, the vocals drift and break down, and there's this odd, sensual pull at it all — like listening to terror sing sweet nothings.
Later on the album, FRAYLE start to really experiment. "Demons" has this creeping sense of horror that makes you remember doom is not necessarily about velocity — it's about heft. And "Souvenirs Of Your Betrayal"? That's a tear-fest. That's heartbreak concretized, a glacial autopsy of trust with a distortion pedal thrumming in the distance. Gwyn's vocals here are blade and cut.
“Glass Blown Heart” does what it says on the tin — fragile but deadly sharp. The mix from Aaron Chaparian deserves real credit: there’s air in the sound, but no relief. Everything feels close, too close, like you’re locked in a room with the band as the amps hum and breathe around you.
By the final song, "Hymn For The Living", it's pure transcendence. Doom metal for the last mass on the last day. The smashing drums are surf on steel, and the vocals drift like incense up through stained glass. "Heretic" ties it all together — hook-prone, epic, and in-your-face. It's one standing exposed amongst the ashes and unbroken.
And "Only Just Once". The ballad. Sad, soft, heartbreaking. It's like the band are leading your hand out with the lights fading. You feel each straw of fatigue, each rasp, each drizzle of disillusion. When it is finished, there is this silence that has been well-won — like you've witnessed something you shouldn't have witnessed, but you're glad you've done so, anyway.
FRAYLE are not some doom band. They've built a cathedral out of distortion, misery, and desire — and managed to set it alight. "Heretics & Lullabies" is simultaneously old and new, sadistic and calming. It's their best, and come on. It's got to be a contender for album of the year.
A solid 9.5/10, bordering on a spiritual experience if you’ve ever worked night shifts, lost something precious, or just needed a reason to keep the van engine running while the world falls apart outside. In another life, I might be a roadie and not a man in a van, but now, halted on the edge of town, with FRAYLE drifting through the speakers and rain tapering off, I reckon that's alright. Words: Matt Denny.
It's my mate Gary — the guy who thinks that doom metal is a school subject that you can learn at school — and he tells me (I say tell, when Gary tells you something, it’s basically a demand), "Stick on the new FRAYLE, mate. It'll shift the weather in your head." So I did. And he was right.
The second "Heretics & Lullabies" starts, and the world crawls along. "Walking Wounded" starts — heavy crawling guitars like a motor warming up in a cemetery. Gwyn Strang's vocals don't sing; they haunt. They wriggle beneath your skin and nestle near your ribcage. The harmonies enfold one another like smoke, and the entire thing seems too delicate to be, but heavy enough to break asphalt.
"Summertime Sadness" — may well be a LANA DEL REY cover song, but they’ve turned it into some velvet-trimmed funeral dirge. It's the tune that makes you think of all the awful things you did when you were in love, but you want to hit replay so you can relive it anyway.
And then "Boo" hits. Like they opened the doors on the van and let the ghosts out to dance. The riffs sway, the vocals drift and break down, and there's this odd, sensual pull at it all — like listening to terror sing sweet nothings.
Later on the album, FRAYLE start to really experiment. "Demons" has this creeping sense of horror that makes you remember doom is not necessarily about velocity — it's about heft. And "Souvenirs Of Your Betrayal"? That's a tear-fest. That's heartbreak concretized, a glacial autopsy of trust with a distortion pedal thrumming in the distance. Gwyn's vocals here are blade and cut.
“Glass Blown Heart” does what it says on the tin — fragile but deadly sharp. The mix from Aaron Chaparian deserves real credit: there’s air in the sound, but no relief. Everything feels close, too close, like you’re locked in a room with the band as the amps hum and breathe around you.
By the final song, "Hymn For The Living", it's pure transcendence. Doom metal for the last mass on the last day. The smashing drums are surf on steel, and the vocals drift like incense up through stained glass. "Heretic" ties it all together — hook-prone, epic, and in-your-face. It's one standing exposed amongst the ashes and unbroken.
And "Only Just Once". The ballad. Sad, soft, heartbreaking. It's like the band are leading your hand out with the lights fading. You feel each straw of fatigue, each rasp, each drizzle of disillusion. When it is finished, there is this silence that has been well-won — like you've witnessed something you shouldn't have witnessed, but you're glad you've done so, anyway.
FRAYLE are not some doom band. They've built a cathedral out of distortion, misery, and desire — and managed to set it alight. "Heretics & Lullabies" is simultaneously old and new, sadistic and calming. It's their best, and come on. It's got to be a contender for album of the year.
A solid 9.5/10, bordering on a spiritual experience if you’ve ever worked night shifts, lost something precious, or just needed a reason to keep the van engine running while the world falls apart outside. In another life, I might be a roadie and not a man in a van, but now, halted on the edge of town, with FRAYLE drifting through the speakers and rain tapering off, I reckon that's alright. Words: Matt Denny.
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